


Captain America: Prologue — 1935, WIP

by faeblesmith



Series: Captain America: Redux [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gay Panic, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia (mentioned), Unresolved Emotional Tension, birthday fic, bucky barnes gets emotional, winnie the pooh gets mentioned briefly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:53:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29972124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faeblesmith/pseuds/faeblesmith
Summary: THIS IS AN EXCERPT FROM MY WIPNOTTHE FULL FIC. the full fic is like 40k and not done so shhhh. this stands alone pretty well, and i put context stuff in the notes dw dw dwOn Bucky’s 18th birthday, he realizes something was missing from his party— Steve wasn’t having fun. So the two of them run away together to have a better time. It backfires immensely when Bucky has his SECOND gay panic.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Captain America: Redux [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2204685
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	Captain America: Prologue — 1935, WIP

**Author's Note:**

> reiterating that this is not a full fic, so there are some context things i want to address  
> \- steve and bucky regularly hang out at an “abandoned” warehouse that isn’t abandoned at all. it’s owned by howard stark and YES howard knows abt this and finds it funny/endearing.  
> \- steve is deaf in one ear because i said so  
> \- when bucky was 16 he tried dating girls, and went out with this girl named evangeline  
> you can ask me questions in the comments or on tumblr
> 
> rating is for implied homophobia and generally a Tense situation.  
> happy 104th birthday bucky i hope u like ur angst
> 
> edit: it says i posted this march 11 but i stg it was like ... 11:55 pm on march 10 for me

**March 10, 1935-**

Bucky’s 18th birthday should have been perfect. He invited everyone he thought would come, and everyone did; he got a cake and presents and was given every imaginable birthday wish, but something was missing. When the last guest leaves the house, streamers and plates littering the living room, Bucky notices Steve still shifting uncomfortably in the corner. It suddenly becomes clear what was missing from the party itself: Steve hadn’t been having fun. He hadn’t been laughing, he hadn’t stood at Bucky’s elbow ready to put his two cents to any thought he had. Bucky had been so swept up in the party itself, and maybe a little intoxicated, that he didn’t even notice. 

He catches Steve’s eye and holds out a hand, palm up. _Well?_ the hand asks, and Steve’s answering head tilt just says _Well, what, James?_

 _Well, a sulking Steve is my least favorite kind of Steve,_ Bucky thinks. He jerks his head towards the front door, but Steve makes a face and waves a hand towards the general mess and then to Winifred. So, with an exasperated sigh and a roll of the eyes, Bucky shuffles over to his mother and rests a hand on her shoulder. He leans in and whispers,

“I’m going to go out with Steve for the rest of the night, is that okay?” She looks at him for a long moment, scanning across his face, her gaze lingering in his eyes before flicking over to Steve and back. 

“Just be careful,” she tells him. “Remember that not everyone can get out of trouble like you.” The way she says it, the tone of her voice on _you,_ the strangeness of the advice itself, gives Bucky pause. He wants to ask her if he’s the one getting out of trouble or if, perhaps, he’s the trouble itself, but she’s already smiling at her own secrets and shooing him away. “Don’t leave him hanging, James.” Bucky gives her a practiced lopsided grin before running across the room to Steve, who looks up at Bucky and his smile warily. Bucky ignores the look and just tugs Steve away from the wall and into the place at his side. 

“Alright, bo, let’s go,” he says, pulling the reluctant, or maybe just confused, Steve towards the front door. 

“Go where? I thought your mom needed help cleaning up.” It’s a statement, but barely, and Steve squirms from Bucky’s grip, slipping off to his and Becky’s room. Bucky follows him in, waiting in the doorway —and making faces at Becky where she sits on her bed wrapping her hair— as Steve tugs on his jacket and picks up his bag. 

Bucky pulls on a pair of shoes and says, “She told me not to worry about it. Besides, I want to celebrate eighteen right.”

“Oh,” is Steve’s simple reply. From her side of the room, Becky does a mocking little _oh_ back, and both Bucky and Steve look over and stick their tongues out at her. Steve seems ready enough, and on the way back to the front room, he pushes himself back up against Bucky’s side, somehow even closer than before. Bucky wraps his arm around Steve’s shoulders, almost fully encircling them as they head out the front door. Steve doesn’t pull away. It always sends a strange thrill through Bucky when he’s allowed such casual affection with Steve. No matter how often he gets to throw an arm around him or kick his feet into Steve’s lap, he always finds himself with inexplicable chills. 

They stroll down Bucky’s street, away from the home where he grew up. Bucky’s side is warmed by his best friend and suddenly he’s happy. He’s freshly eighteen and perfectly, beautifully happy. 

“Where are we going?” Steve asks, gripping the strap of his bag a little tighter. He was protective of it when he arrived, forbidding Bucky from even so much as touching it, and Bucky has his suspicions as to its contents.

“The rooftop. Where else would we be going? Do _you_ know anywhere else two teenagers can go to hang out where it’s quiet enough to talk?” Bucky wonders briefly if he should pull his arm back to his side, but no one is around. Everyone that would be out walking or dancing was already where they wanted to be; it was a mystical hour before the earlybirds left, but after most Saturday plans were underway. Instead of pulling away, Bucky slides his hips a little closer to Steve’s as they walk, pushing him flush against his side. He can almost hear Steve’s smile.

“Quit that, you’re going to make me trip.” Steve still hasn’t pushed Bucky away from him, and Bucky is still riding the high that comes from being so physically near him. Halfway to the abandoned warehouse they claimed as their club, they start winding their feet together, one over the other then reversed. To keep balance, Steve grips the back of Bucky’s jacket, giggling against his arm. Bucky’s heart soars above them, tumbling over itself to keep pace. He ignores it. 

When they arrive at the warehouse, they stumble to a stop, struggling to keep to the shadows. To their shock and, for Bucky anyway, mild horror, it’s bustling with dark clothed workers, moving large, chained and padlocked crates into their favorite warehouse. They’ve never seen anyone go in or out of the building before. 

“Do you think we could still get up there?” Bucky asks as they duck behind an empty crate, his voice barely a whisper. He peers over Steve’s head and around the side of the box to get a look at the fire escape. While the ladder is already down, no one seems to be paying any attention to it, some even seem to be actively avoiding going near it. Bucky doesn’t get a chance to further analyze before Steve is scurrying off towards it. He bites back a shout and chases after Steve, narrowly dodging around a reversing truck. Bucky hisses Steve’s name, trying to get him to slow down. He’s never seen Steve so courageous, but wonders what else he might be capable of, given the chance. It’s a wondrous thing to see Steve ducking and dodging around workers, never so quick as to catch someone’s eye, but never so slow as to be obvious. Bucky is sure that if Steve turned to look at him right now, he’d find hearts in Bucky’s eyes. 

He follows Steve’s every move and, later than he had intended when they left the house, they’re climbing up the side of the warehouse and onto the roof. 

“That was fun,” Steve says with a broad smile, panting as he shifts to take off his bag and sits. Bucky looks at him for a long moment, taking in the flush of his cheeks illuminated only by the lights below them, taking in the way Steve’s smile seems to split his face nearly in half (Steve has the widest grin just like his mother, though perhaps his is more common than hers), taking in the way his own heart pitifully leaps when Steve’s tongue darts out to wet a chapped crack at the corner of his mouth. 

Bucky plops down across from Steve, crossing his legs and tucking his hands under his knees. With a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, Bucky rocks forward and asks, 

“Now, Mr. Rogers, where did _that_ come from?” Steve’s smile fades slightly, but he doesn’t pull away when Bucky leans in. Rather, he sits up a little straighter and confidently says,

“Even you, Mr. Barnes, do not have an encyclopedic knowledge of me.” Steve reaches out and pokes Bucky’s chest before flicking his finger up and hitting his chin. “The inner machinations of my mind are an enigma.” He is, Bucky thinks, dazzling like this. Bucky watches Steve’s eyes flit around his face, seeming to linger. 

With a start, Bucky realizes what he was doing, the way he was leaning towards Steve, and his face burns. He can feel the warmth of the blush creeping into the roots of his hair and down his neck. He sits back, uncrossing his legs and letting his feet press up against Steve’s legs. He very carefully looks up at the night sky, rather than at Steve. 

“So,” he begins, searching for any reason not to dwell on his own thoughts. “Where’s my birthday present?” Steve scoffs and Bucky can almost hear the way his eyes roll. When he risks a glance down nothing seems out of place, and Bucky relaxes a little. Not enough, especially given the calm that usually washes over him when he’s with Steve, but a little. 

“What makes you think I got you one? Am I not enough of a gift?” Bucky scoffs. He takes a breath, and holds it. He slowly counts to ten before releasing it and looking over to Steve, who’s turned to look over the edge of the roof at the pier below. “What do you think’s going on down there? You think this place got bought?” Steve asks. Bucky cranes to look as well, leaning back into Steve’s space as he does it. 

The bustling workers either didn’t notice them go up, or, and this is more the more concerning option, are choosing to ignore them up there. They all bustle about, moving crates and shouting things to each other, working hard late on a Saturday night. If they’re actively ignoring the two of them up on the roof, Bucky realizes, someone must have instructed them to. It’s not a comfortable thought. He squints down at the crates, trying to read what’s stamped on to each one. He says,

“Maybe this place was never abandoned. Maybe they only work at night.” Bucky doubts it, but it would be a fun story for later. “Maybe this is secretly a government building and we’ve been sitting above robots this whole time.” Steve looks less than impressed as he turns back, and Bucky can’t help the way he smiles at him. The sounds below them seem to be blown away in the breeze, or just dampened when they lean back, leaving them alone on the roof together. 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Steve pauses, letting the words linger for a moment before his lips curl into a sly smile “Obviously they have _space aliens_ down there.” Bucky huffs out a laugh. “The green, slimy kind, like in that Welles book you made me read. They’re here to take over and they’re going to start with _us_.” 

They’re both fully laughing now, and Bucky leans over and pinches Steve’s side, cackling as he declares, 

“Don’t worry, Steve! I’ll protect you from the slimy space aliens! I can just cough on them, that’ll scare them away.” Steve lets off a beautiful peel of laughter, his head thrown back into the night. Bucky is struck by how grateful he is to have Steve in his life; his best friend could have been anyone he’s ever met, but somehow he ended up with someone intelligent and talented, even if he was sometimes too stubborn for his own good. 

As Steve calms down, Bucky watches him stick his arm down into his bag. “I thought you didn’t get me anything,” he teases, pulling his knees to his chest. If he knew it was going to be so cold, he thinks, he wouldn’t have taken Steve out, but just dragged him to his room and told Becky to leave them alone instead. But, he’s still sitting on the roof of an unabandoned warehouse and watching Steve’s hair rustle in the wind. 

“I was kidding. Of course I got you something. But you’re not allowed to ask how much it cost.” 

Bucky just _looks_ at him. It’s never been a good sign when Steve tells him not to mention money. It always comes back to money eventually; sometimes it’s paying back lunch, sometimes it’s helping pay for a movie ticket, sometimes it’s just a fast borrowed dollar, but Steve’s never let money be forgotten. If Steve’s telling Bucky not to mention money, whatever he got cost more than a pretty penny. 

Steve pulls a long, thin box from his bag, turning it over in his hands. It’s longer than it is wide, and made of a thin metal. Bucky isn’t sure he wants to believe what Steve is holding. 

“I remember you said you wanted to try your hand at comics, and I figured, well, comics aren’t usually in black and white, and I _know_ you don’t like painting, so I thought you might-” He stops and takes a breath. “I thought you’d want something colorful, that’s all.” He hands the box over, and Bucky takes it carefully. He can hear the rattle of pencils as he pulls the lid off. Inside is a set of twelve pristine, unsharpened colored pencils. They’re the good kind, too. Nothing cheap, nothing dull. Bucky runs a fingertip across the pencils, feeling the smooth wood roll against the box. Getting something like this isn’t easy, he knows that first hand, it also isn’t cheap; the last time Bucky found a set, they were three dollars, and he couldn’t bring himself to throw that much money to a hobby. 

But here in his hands is a set of perfect colored pencils, given to him just because Steve wanted him to have color for his art. Steve could have gotten groceries, and laundry soap, and a movie ticket with the money he spent on these, but he didn’t. Bucky swallows around the sudden lump in his throat and pulls his legs back under himself, scooting closer to Steve to whisper,

“Are you sure you want to give these to me?” He meant for it to sound confident, maybe even annoyed, but the words squeak out wet, near tearful. Steve looks up at him and cocks his head, brows furrowed. Bucky allows his mind to unravel around him, to imagine what it might be like if he were to just lean forward, close the gap between them, and press his lips to Steve’s. 

Maybe Steve would hesitate before leaning into it. Maybe Bucky would put his palm to Steve’s cheek, his thumb gently pressed into the spot just beneath the corner of Steve’s eye. Maybe he would drop the pencils and they would lay abandoned between them as Steve rocks up onto his knees. Maybe Steve would hold Bucky’s hand where it rests on his cheek and run his thumb across the bone of Bucky’s wrist. Maybe…

Maybe Steve’s head would snap back as though hit. Maybe he’d shove Bucky with the same anger and strength he has when they fight and scramble to his feet. Maybe he’d swipe at his mouth, trying to get rid of the feeling of Bucky’s lips on his. Maybe he’d hurl dark, barbed words at him and snatch the pencils back before rushing off, never to speak to Bucky again. Maybe… 

Maybe Bucky needs to accept the fact that he’ll never know what Steve’s wide smile feels like pressed against his mouth. 

When Bucky blinks back into reality, he’s leaning towards Steve, who’s looking at him unabashed and curious. The imagined words Steve had shouted at him run circles around Bucky’s mind, and he slams the pencil case closed. He stretches out, away from Steve and his wide eyes. He puts a hand out behind him and leans back, looking back up to the sky. He tells himself he imagined the disappointment that washed over Steve’s face when he pulled away. 

“Thank you,” Bucky says simply, counting the stars he can see and the seconds before Steve replies.

“What do you think you’re going to draw with them?” It feels like Steve didn’t even notice that Bucky moved to kiss him. It occurs to him that he may not have; only one of them has ever been kissed, and it wasn’t Steve. 

Bucky wants to scream. He wants to cry just a little. He wants to feel normal, wants to be someone who doesn’t imagine kissing his best friend, wants to kiss his best friend. So he says,

“Something stupid, probably.”

“Nothing you do is ever stupid, Bucky.” And he knows Steve means it. Bucky can barely think through the thickness of his breath. He didn’t expect to end his eighteenth birthday near tears, but he didn’t expect Steve to do something like this, either; Bucky would have been happy just spending time with him. 

“What about that time that I drew Becky as a centaur. That was pretty stupid.” It’s the first thing that Bucky can think of, and when Steve chuckles at the memory, he wishes he hadn’t said anything at all. Nobody ever told him love would hurt this much. 

That thought is enough to send Bucky fully over the precipice of panic. He squeezes his eyes shut when Steve whispers, 

“We should head back.” Maybe Steve expected all this, maybe he knew Bucky wanted to cry, maybe he didn’t. Suddenly Bucky realizes what would be worse than vitriol if he kissed Steve. The only thing worse. 

Maybe Steve would let Bucky kiss him. Maybe he would freeze and stay frozen, wait for Bucky to pull away. Maybe would give Bucky a polite smile and tell him that he won’t tell anyone. Maybe he’d say he wants to pretend Bucky hadn’t done that. Maybe Bucky would have to go on knowing that Steve knows, and nothing would be the same. 

Bucky holds back a sob. He can feel Steve’s fingers on his ankle, slipped just under the hem of his pants and gripping tightly. Steve whispers his name, and Bucky wrenches open his eyes to look at him. Steve is looking back with a look that asks so many questions, knowing he won’t get any answers. He nods back to the fire escape, silently imploring Bucky to come with. Bucky nods and sooner than expected, they’re climbing back down the side of their warehouse. 

The walk home is quiet and uneventful. Bucky doesn’t loop an arm around Steve’s neck and Steve doesn’t mention his sudden shift in demeanor or the barely unshed tears on the roof. At the Rogers’ door, Steve pauses, running a thumb across the strap of his bag.

“Do you really not like the pencils?” he asks, hesitant but sure in the darkness. Bucky’s heart _aches._

“The pencils are great, Steve, really. I just…” Bucky trails off. He needs a moment to consider what he can say. What won’t give him away? “I just can’t believe you got them for me.” Steve nods, worrying a loose thread in the stitching of his bag with his thumb. He looks up into Bucky’s eyes, steps close enough that Bucky can feel his body heat, and whispers,

“Draw me something good, okay?” And with that, Steve leans in and wraps himself around Bucky’s waist, pressing his good ear against Bucky’s chest. A beat passes. Bucky slowly slides his arms around Steve’s back, holding him tight. “Happy birthday,” Steve tells Bucky’s chest, before he lets go and takes a step back, going inside before Bucky can formulate a proper thanks. 

~~~

George Barnes is a worrisome man by nature, and that affects many aspects of his life from the way he interacts with his children to the careful way he ties his shoes in the morning. Bucky disappearing into the night with Steve after his party is his worry for the evening; he finds himself awake at close to eleven, sitting up in the living room accompanied only by his thoughts and the dull yellow light of the lamp next to him. The night presses in on him and as eleven turns to eleven-thirty turns to midnight, he begins to pace. To the wall, to the couch, to the hallway, to the couch, to the wall and back. The minutes tick by and he wants to just leave a light on and go to bed, but not knowing when or even if Bucky will come back is too much for him to simply sleep through. So he paces, and he looks to the door, and he tries not to let his worry turn to anger. 

Finally, at twelve-twenty, Bucky hesitantly cracks open the front door, visibly shaken. He glances around the door, gaze landing on his father standing in the middle of the living room in a similar state of distress. Neither of them say a word as Bucky quietly closes the door and creeps fully into the house. Relieved to simply see his son physically well, George releases a long, relieved sigh and half collapses into his armchair. Bucky hesitates by the door, looking between his father and the hall towards his room. Of course, George wouldn’t stop him from fleeing to bed after what seemed to be an eventful night, but he would much prefer him to come sit and tell him why he looks ashy and stricken. With a voice nearly unrecognizable as his (now) adult son, Bucky whispers a question into the dark,

“Dad, would you love me if I never married?” Bucky is looking at him now and he can’t think of anything to tell him, so George motions for him to sit and, with only a moment’s pause, he does. This is not a conversation George pictured having with a shaking, fearful Bucky; he’d always pictured Bucky approaching him with Steve in tow, their fingers intertwined but no less nervous for it; he’d imagined telling them that it was about damn time and the two of them smiling relieved, happy smiles. It never occurred to him that Bucky wouldn’t legally marry. It was a given, he thinks, that he’d simply unofficially marry. He certainly does not expect what Bucky tells him now through shaking breath and stutters. “Steve gave me a set of colored pencils for my birthday, which is the most ridiculous thing for him to get me. He did it so casually, like he’d never considered doing anything less than everything for me. I can’t stand it,” he gasps this, his head falling into his hands. 

Unsure of how to handle this side of Bucky (it having gone unseen since he was a boy crying about how sweet Winnie the Pooh is certainly doesn’t help), George gets up from his armchair to sit next to his son. For the first time in Bucky’s life, he wishes he’d been a more physically affectionate father, the kind of man who could pull his son to him in this moment of, granted, quite unexpected, crisis and tell him that he would be there for him no matter what. Instead, he finds himself unable to formulate a single comforting word to tell him now. In lieu of saying anything at all, George places a hand on the back of Bucky’s head, as he had when he was just a toddler who hid his face when he cried. He can hear sobs now, the thick, ugly kind that usually get reserved for pillows and breakups. 

“I can’t stand it,” Bucky stutters out again, his voice thick with the weight of the confession. “I wish I could kiss him, right square on the mouth. It’s such a horrible thing to want, to kiss my best friend, but I want to so badly. I don’t understand why I can’t be happy with a pretty girl like Evangeline. She’s very sweet and so smart, any guy would be lucky to have a girl like her, but when I was trying to date her I would look at her and just think,” he coughs out a sob, his breath hitching over itself. “I would look at her and just, I would just wish it was Steve.” George remains silent, no longer unsure where this has come from, but now unsure that his input is really what Bucky needs. He rubs careful arcs across the nape of Bucky’s neck, remembering the way he would cradle him through thunderstorms and nightmares. Bucky had long since outgrown sucking his thumb or sitting in George’s lap, but he wishes he could do just that; he doesn’t know another way to protect him from the fear inside his own head. With a wavering breath, George quietly says,

“Bucky,” he stops, biting his lips together. He tries again. “ _James_ , your mother and I will love you forever, no matter what. We- I don’t care if you get married or not, it’s just not important,” Bucky’s shoulders shake beneath his hand and George sighs. He keeps his careful strokes against the back of Bucky’s neck, knowing it’s not enough. He doesn’t know what to say, but he knows what he needs to ask. “Bucky, have you, well,” George pauses to clear his throat. Bucky isn’t quite sobbing anymore, but he’s certainly not calm. “Have you asked Steve what _he_ wants,” and it’s immediately clear that he’s said something wrong. Bucky pushes his arm off of him, opting instead to wipe his own tears and throw his head back against the couch. George tries to recall the last time he saw his son’s eyes rimmed in such an intense red, but comes up short. 

“That’s out of the fu—” Bucky stops, throwing his arm over his eyes and huffs around his sobs. Under normal circumstances, George would comment on Bucky’s near slip of the tongue, but now doesn’t seem the time. “That’s out of the question, Dad. I can’t— I can’t ruin what I already have just to get what I want.” If George were a more eloquent, emotive man, he would tell Bucky of all the love he sees pouring from Steve the moment Bucky enters the room, of the way their eyes are always on each other, of the subtle orbit they keep, circling each other in easy harmony. Anyone who pays attention can see how much they care for each other, but it seems to George that Bucky might be too wrapped up in his own confusion to realize it isn’t as complicated as it seems. 

“Bucky,” George starts, but Bucky doesn’t give him a chance, finally spilling his own thoughts to him. 

“I think I’ve known how I feel for years, I mean, I’ve known that girls are stupid since I was maybe fourteen, but I don’t want to,” his breath stutters, tears still sliding in thick streams down his face. “I don’t want to lose Steve. I was ready to kiss him, I was going to do it, but if I do it and he doesn’t reciprocate, then I’ve ruined it, and he’s _everything_.” Bucky’s voice breaks, shattering before he can go any further. George realizes suddenly that he’s likely never said any of this aloud, and he feels a wave of despair wash over him. Not only has Bucky never felt he can articulate these feelings to himself, or to Steve, he doesn’t believe he can even have the one thing in life that he wants. How long, then, is he willing to subject himself to the hot shame of seemingly unrequited affection? George presses a hand to Bucky’s cheek, willing him to just open his eyes. When he doesn’t, George decides it best to just say what he wants, and maybe the sheer intensity of his conviction will tell Bucky what he needs to know.

“I think Steve will love you just like we do. Nothing has come between you before, why should this?” It’s insufficient and subpar, but Bucky slides his arm away from his eyes. He looks at the ceiling for the longest time, before finally turning ever so slightly to look his father in the eye.

“Do you really mean that? I don’t mean about Steve, I mean,” he visibly swallows. “I mean, do you really mean that you’ll love me if I never bring a girl home?”

“I’ll love you if you never bring home a girl, and I’ll love you if you bring home St—” now it’s George’s turn to stop himself. He’s sure Bucky notices his slip, but hopes his point is clear regardless. “And I’ll love you if you bring home a boy. You’re my son, and nothing can change that.” Bucky is still looking at him, blue eyes shimmering with fresh tears in the dim light. George sighs, pulling Bucky by the shoulder until his son, though grown enough not to need him, is leaning on him. He knows in this moment that no matter what came next in Bucky’s life, he’d be able to come to his father for it all. 

**Author's Note:**

> if this was cool and/or good and/or you liked it, you can find me on tumblr at  
> [ steverogers-against-disney ](https://steverogers-against-disney.tumblr.com/)  
> you can also follow my main at  
> [ faeblesmith ](https://faeblesmith.tumblr.com)  
> but i won’t answer any marvel/stucky fic related questions there


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